


One of the Lads

by RaggedRose



Series: One of the Lads [1]
Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 19:58:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaggedRose/pseuds/RaggedRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story draws on the historical tradition of female seamen who served disguised as men, and the folk songs that sprang up around them. Most of the songs involve the maiden going off to search for her lover and end with her either being unmasked or choosing to abandon her disguise when she finds her man. The reality was different. These women served because they wished to, and for every one we have a record of, there were undoubtedly many others who were not discovered, and so never made their way into the pages of history. I offer you Sarah Woods as an example of one who was successful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One of the Lads

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: With the exception of Sarah Woods, I borrowed most of these characters from the series Horatio Hornblower. They aren't mine, and I have no intention of making a profit from them, nor is any disrespect intended. I promise to wash them in salt water and put them back in their hammocks as I found them when I'm through with them. Story and character of Sarah Woods are mine, and I retain the rights to them. Permission to archive and print is granted, as long as this disclaimer and my name remain attached.

Sarah examined her reflection in the cracked glass critically. With the front of her hair hacked short, and the back bound into a pigtail, she looked a completely different person. She smiled at herself, liking what she saw. George could laugh all he liked, she would do as she pleased! 

George had been his usual sparkling self when he had arrived, bringing the news of her husband--his brother Paul's death in a tavern brawl. He had probably witnessed it, Sarah thought sourly. Whenever drink was to be had, George was there, tankard in hand. He had informed her that the boats were now his. Sarah had been unable to stop him from taking them, though George was as much a waterman as she was a fine lady! In the end, she had had to yield in the face of his threats. Even had she been able to keep him from taking them by force, it would have been impossible to continue to ply her trade with him threatening her or her passengers at every turn, as he had sworn to do. 

So Sarah was forced to take a more roundabout means to making a living. It had been a long time since she had been free to choose her own path, and she had not forgotten how, it seemed. She realized that if she did not make her own way immediately, only two choices awaited her. With the loss of the boats, her only means of honest livelihood had gone with her ill-fated husband. George had tried to claim her as well--marriage to him would have solved her financial problems, but it would have been no different than her marriage to Paul. She had refused his offer, and after he had gone, had spent a sleepless night coming up with the desperate plan she was now putting into motion. 

The rough seaman's clothes were Paul's. He had served in the Navy until a flying splinter had taken out an eye. It was his pension and his boats that had attracted Sarah's father. She had gladly married him, and he had taken her as much for her skills with small boats as for herself. Unfortunately for Sarah, the sturdy veteran seaman she had admired did not retain his appeal for long. He had not been brutish or drunken when they had married, but once permanently on the beach, he had changed. Soon, it had been Sarah who had done most of the work ferrying passengers to and fro across Spithead harbor, with Paul and George helping as the mood struck them. More often, Paul was in the alehouse, cadging drinks and telling tales of his service that grew taller with each recitation. 

She bound a cloth tightly across her breasts before pulling on the shirt and trousers. She had worked steadily over the last two days remaking the clothing to her own measure, and she had done well. Two other shirts and a pair of trousers went into Paul's old seabag, along with stockings and a few oddments. The rest of his kit she had sold before George could get his hands on it. Most of the money had gone for the shoes she now pulled on. The rest she retrieved from the grate and put in her pocket. George had wanted it too, but had not been able to find anything of value when he had ransacked the small room. Her kit had been in the care of her neighbor Nancy. Clothing she would gladly trust her with, but the money would have been too much of a temptation to a woman as poor as Nancy was. She looked round the place she had called home for the last five years. For a moment, she grieved for the dashing seaman she had fallen in love with. Once, she had been happy here. But there was no future in memories of a life that had been swept away. She picked up her seabag and closed the door on her past. 

*****

"Boat there! Ahoy!" 

That same seabag hit the wet planks of the dock as the launch from the frigate Indefatigable approached. Sarah caught the line that was thrown to her and handily made it fast to a cleat. She held her breath as the officer in the sternsheets looked her up and down. She kept silent as he climbed onto the dock, his boat's crew silent and straight, their tossed oars in hand. 

"What's your business here, lad?" said the lieutenant. 

"Could you use another hand, sir?" Sarah said her piece forthrightly, looking him in the eye as she did so. 

"I might do," allowed the stocky man, round-faced under the cocked hat. His eye ran over her again, appraisingly. "What was your last ship?" 

"I were a fisherman sir, out of Kent. I've been working as a waterman since the boat foundered and I made my way here." She waited, trying to look nonchalant. 

"You'll do," he allowed at last. "Name?" 

"Woods, sir," she said. "Jack Woods". 

He turned to the boat. "Garson, take Woods here back to the Indy and have him entered in the muster book. I will expect a boat here at six bells of the first watch." 

"Aye aye sir," the seaman at the tiller replied. "Woods, take Peterson's oar." 

Sarah threw her seabag to Peterson as he made his way forward, then took his thwart and oar. She pulled with a will, following the stroke oar as one born to it. She did her best to look unconcerned as the seaman next to her looked her up and down searchingly, but her heart was in her mouth. After a moment, she had had enough. 

"Got your eyeful, mate," she said, skating the edge between belligerence and inquiry. 

"What's it to you?" The pocked face wore a nasty look, but Sarah had faced it before, on every waterman she'd beaten to a fare. She smiled back, giving him the same slow scrutiny, not missing a stroke. 

"Styles! Belay that!" Garson had followed the exchange, and was not pleased, especially since the pocked seaman's stroke had been growing ragged. All he needed was to be seen by the officer of the watch and reprimanded for a sloppy crew. It was only a few moments more before Peterson was hooking on from the bow. 

Garson grumbled a bit about officers who couldn't be bothered to either let their men stay on shore, or hire a waterman, but would drag poor Jack Tar out of his hammock. He subsided into silence as an officer passed. He pulled Sarah aside as she went to lend a hand to haul the boat aboard. "Let's get you mustered in, me lad!" His mind was on the fare at the mess table, and the few hours he'd have till Mr Bracegirdle would expect him back on shore. He led the Indefatigable's newest volunteer below. 

"Name?" The clerk had laid the ship's muster book out on the mess table and looked expectantly at Sarah. 

"Jack Woods, of Gosport," the sailor answered. 

"Rating?" 

"Ordinary, Volunteer," supplied Lieutenant Chadd, who had examined Sarah briefly after conferring with Garson. "He'll go into the larboard watch." 

"Aye, sir," the clerk said. "Number 22 of the Larboard watch, at 25 and 6 a month." He looked up from the book. "Can you read?" 

"No sir," Sarah answered. 

The clerk sighed and pushed the book across the table. "Make your mark then," he said resignedly. "Sir, I'll put him in place of Williams, if I may?" 

"Have you a head for heights, Woods," Chadd asked offhandedly.

"Aye, sir," Sarah answered. 

"Good," said Chadd. "Williams was a foretopman. Wheeler, give him his assignments and put him in Williams's place in the watch, station and quarter bills." The lieutenant started toward the ladder, his duty done and his mind already in the wardroom. 

"Sir?" Sarah spoke up. "My bounty money's due me." 

Chadd nodded. "Cash, or noted on the purser's books?" He paused a moment. "You won't be going ashore, Woods. Be safer to keep it on account." 

"If it's all the same to you, I'll take it in cash, sir." Sarah knew that should she be discovered, bounty money on the books might as well be on the moon for all the good it would do her. 

Chadd sighed, and saw to it. 

****

Wheeler led Indy's newest seaman to the lower deck. It was crowded with the regular complement, and as the ship was still in port, there were women adding their share to the general merriment and bustle. The noise was incredible, and the mess tables had been lowered and were swinging from the deckhead. The men were already eating, some sharing a plate with their women, but Wheeler waved Woods into a seat beside him. 

"You'd better have saved enough for both of us!" He reached for an empty plate. 

There was only one, and Sarah feared that she would be sharing it with Wheeler, in clandestine mimicry of the scene around her, but a burly seaman at the end of the table elbowed the man behind him. "Wotcher think this is, M'lord's dining table? Pass us a plate, Styles!"

The man chucked the girl on his lap under the chin, and squeezed her tightly as she giggled, but he produced a battered tin plate. "Last man goes 'ungry, Wheeler!" He tossed the plate to Sarah, who caught it and slapped it down onto the table. She pulled her belt knife and stood, to peer into the mess kid in the center of the table. It was nearly empty, but she speared the last chunk of meat within and divided it neatly in half. Wheeler, meanwhile, grabbed the bread barge and found only crumbs. 

"You greedy bastards!" He swore good naturedly and turned to the seaman who had elbowed Styles. "You knew I was mustering in a new man, Hardy, some mate you turned out to be!" 

Hardy laughed. "Bringing an extra mouth to a full mess, some mate you are, Wheeler!" He poured them each a tankard of small beer. "Take what's left and be grateful!" 

"That I will, Hardy," said Woods. She spied some bread on Styles's table. "And you could give that biscuit a fair wind, Styles," she said. Even with the women crowding the table, she counted only four men seated at it. "I see you're short a man--have you room for another messmate?" 

"No!" Styles roared. 

"Why not," a small man with a deeply lined face asked equably. "Sit yourself down--" He looked expectantly at Sarah.

"Woods--Jack Woods," Sarah answered. She swung round the end of the bench and sat down, smiling sweetly at the man who had invited her. "Scuse me, ducks," she said to a dark-haired girl who was also seated on the bench. 

"Matthews," said the hospitable seaman. "Styles you already know, and Ginny" he said. The woman seated on Styles's lap showed a mouthful of bad teeth. "And this is Oldroyd, and Finch." 

"And I'm Sal," said the girl next to her, giving Matthews a hurt look. She snuggled closer to Finch, who put his arm around her, a blissful smile on his face. 

"Pleased," she said, nodding at the table at large. Styles scowled as she reached for the bread barge. She put a large chunk of ships biscuit on Wheeler's plate, and another on her own. "Thank ye, friend Wheeler," she said. "I think this mess'll suit me fine." 

"Till the end of the month," Styles growled. 

"Easy, mate," Sarah said. "No need to take on so." She fell to with a will, ignoring the fuming sailor across from her. 

Matthews chuckled, earning another glare from Styles. But the other man held his peace, and the rest of the meal passed companionably. It was Matthews who showed her where to draw a hammock, and where to stow her seabag. Later, after down hammocks had been piped, she lay in it happily, contemplating the shadowy shapes of the beams above her head and heartily pleased with herself. Around her the noise had subsided somewhat, though the lower deck could hardly be called quiet. Content with her new start, Sarah had no trouble getting to sleep. 

****

"Mr Hornblower!"

Hornblower turned to meet Mr Chadd coming down the quarterdeck ladder. "Sir?"

"You've a new man in your division, a Jack Woods. He signed aboard as a volunteer last night. Should make a fine replacement for that poor devil Williams." They had paused by the main mast. "He says he was a fisherman in Kent before he came to us, and seems a good man, according to Garson." 

”Very well, sir," said Hornblower, remembering the moment that Williams's body had gone over the side as he touched his hat to his superior. Would that this man would not end up the same way! He kept his thoughts to himself as he stood with Chadd, though. "What do you know of him, if I may ask, sir?" 

Chadd clasped his hands behind his back, a gesture habitual to all British Navy officers. As midshipmen, they were trained, by means that varied with their officers from constant annoyance to outright torture never to keep their hands in their pockets. As time passed, those hands sought a resting place both comfortable and acceptable to their superiors, arriving at last at the stance both Chadd and Hornblower now assumed. "He seemed steady enough, though I was not with him long. He cannot read, and took his bounty money in cash." Chadd's amusement was evident as he looked at his companion. "In time of war, one cannot quarrel with the men that Providence sends. He'll do, Mr. Hornblower, and you may see that for yourself at Divisions." 

It was nearly three bells of the forenoon, and the men were beginning to assemble. Hornblower spied a man he didn't recognize with Matthews. Slight and dark, he was listening attentively as Matthews told him something. His clothes were clean and in good repair and he held himself easily, swaying to the slight roll of the ship as one long accustomed to the sea. 

Chadd watched Hornblower assess the new seaman. The new midshipman was so eager to do his job well that at times his enthusiasm bordered on caricature. If he weren't so absolutely guileless, and unaware of the charm that his innocence gave him, he would be insufferable. 

The men formed up, and their officers began to walk down the orderly rows. As was usual in Indefatigable, the men were clean, their clothing in good repair. Pellew would have it no other way. Hornblower's eye swept over his men, and found nothing to remark on, except perhaps for the relaxed formality that characterized the entire company, a trained readiness to do whatever was asked, but a sense of independence as well. Save Oldroyd, who was barefoot. 

"Where are your shoes, Oldroyd," he asked, dreading the answer. 

"I don't know sir," came the answer, the seaman's eyes on the deck between his toes. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Hornblower saw Styles's quickly masked grin. "Well, I'm sure the division would be willing to take up a collection to see that they're replaced." The grin was replaced by a look of indignation. "As a matter of fact, I'll start you off with a shilling. The purser charges six shillings a pair--who will match me?" Hornblower pulled the coin from his pocket and looked expectantly at the rest of the division. 

"I think I saw them below, sir," said Matthews quickly, darting a reproachful look at Styles. 

Hornblower turned a pair of wide eyes on Matthews. "Did you now? Yet you let him come on deck without them? Styles," he said without turning, "do you think you could go below and find them for our untidy friend here?" 

Styles looked daggers at Matthews behind his officer's back. "Aye, sir," he answered, and went to do as he had been requested. 

Hornblower returned the shilling to his pocket and walked slowly down the line, hands behind his back. "Well, now that that's settled, I see we have a new man. Woods, isn't it?" He stopped in front of the dark-haired sailor. 

The new man met Hornblower's eyes calmly. "Aye, sir," he said. Sarah was aware of his measuring gaze upon her, and assessed him in her turn. This one didn't miss much, she concluded, not after how he'd just dealt with Styles, but she also was struck with his fairness. Yes, she had landed a berth she could be happy in, and would work willingly for this man. 

Hornblower nodded, satisfied that he had not been handed a green hand or a troublemaker to deal with. Chadd was right, in times like these, a willing pair of experienced hands was a welcome surprise. He had expected his division to remain shorthanded for some time to come. "How long have you been at sea, Woods?" 

"All my life, sir," Sarah answered truthfully. "My father thought as I should learn a trade early." 

"Well enough," said Hornblower. 

Styles reappeared, a pair of worn shoes in his hand. He threw them hard at Oldroyd, who gratefully drew them on. 

Every division snapped to as a sturdy figure in blue and gold appeared at the quarterdeck rail. It was Sarah's first look at Captain Sir Edward Pellew. The plain features under the gold trimmed hat were alert, and now she could see where the spirit that suffused the whole ship emanated from. She smiled to herself. She had landed a fortunate berth indeed! 

"We have been idling long enough in port," he began, in a resonant voice that carried to the assembled ships company. "and our Lords of the Admiralty have at last seen fit to send us back where we belong!" Pellew's hand swept out to encompass the mouth of the harbor and the sea beyond. "The French have remained in port, and it is our duty to keep them there!" He paused. "Are you ready to do your duty, men?" 

"Yes!" roared the company. 

"Are you of a mind to take them, or sink them where they sail?" 

"Yes!" the answer was as swift as the first. 

"Well enough, for there are prizes aplenty for those who are dauntless enough to win them!" Pellew smiled wolfishly. "Say farewell to your wives, for they will be sent ashore at eight bells of the forenoon." He noted the lack of enthusiasm at this last. "Would you take them into danger, and risk their deaths? No, for we are sworn to protect them, as we are sworn to England, sirs! Send them off with a smile and know that your sacrifice will not go unmarked! When you meet them again, your joy will be greater for the knowledge that you have answered when your country called!" The men looked resigned at this, but Pellew had not expected his last order to be a popular one. " We will weigh tomorrow when the tide turns. Dismissed." 

"Easy for 'im to say, 'e never brings a lass aboard, 'e doesn't," Styles grumbled. "I wonder what 'e gets up to ashore, eh," he dug Oldroyd in the ribs. 

Finch's melancholy was palpable as the women went over the side. Some were crying, including his Sal. Unlike many of the men, the woman who had shared his hammock really was his wife. Styles's companion kissed him heartily and flashed a generous expanse of shapely calf at him as she went. Sarah watched the spectacle silently. How narrowly she had escaped such a fate as this! Most of these women would be passengers in another bumboat as soon as the money they had gotten from Indefatigable was spent. And what of women like Sal, who really did have husbands aboard His Majesty's ships? Sarah shuddered to think of how she would be forced to make ends meet! Finch seemed the sort who would assign part of his meager pay to her, but it was never enough to live on for those who stayed behind. Once again, Sarah thanked God for her acceptance aboard Indefatigable. 

****

His Majesty's frigate Indefatigable sailed south off the coast of France, the wind comfortably on her starboard quarter. The long summer's day was drawing to a close, and the last dogwatch as well. Woods and Matthews sprawled companionably in the foretop, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the sway of the ship. Matthews had filled his clay pipe and passed the tobacco pouch to his messmate. Woods accepted it, and filled her own pipe. She leaned far out over the edge of the top, the better to focus the lowering sun through her burning glass into the bowl of the pipe. When she had the tobacco well lit, she passed the lens to Matthews and leaned back against the mast to enjoy a good smoke. She had always preferred a pipe to a chaw, and found that Matthews shared her inclination. The two had become firm friends since the night Matthews had invited Woods to join the mess. They found that they shared much, including a tendency to keep the peace whenever possible. It had been Matthews who had told her how to get on the right side of Styles. The man would bet on anything, and though it had cost her a days grog, it had been worth it. Of course Oldroyd never did find out who put the butter in his hammock, but Styles liked getting the better of the impulsive ginger haired seaman as much as he did a good wager. 

The bells that marked the end of the watch broke the calm, and Sarah pressed the remaining tobacco firmly into the bowl of her pipe before stowing it in its case. "See you on deck, mate," she said 

Matthews watched Woods grab a backstay and slide nimbly down to the deck. He took the more leisurely trip down the ratlines. As he went, he enjoyed the memory of her nearness as he did the warm summer sun. Her secret was something that warmed him as well, all the more so because he knew that she had no idea he had guessed it. 

It had been a long time since Matthews had been in love, and he still wasn't sure if it were only because she was near, and because they suited each other so well as shipmates, or if it was something deeper and truer. He rather liked things as they were, for he saw how she loved her life in Indy, and would not deprive her of it. Matthews preferred to move slowly, and think things out when he could, and she wasn't going anywhere, now was she? Time enough to tell her when Indy paid off. If the feeling were true, it would wait until then. 

****

"The French have assembled a fine set of prizes for us, gentlemen, if we have the wit to take them, that is." Pellew sat at the head of the table in the stern cabin, his officers grouped round him. "They have anchored their supply vessels here," he indicated a narrow inlet on the chart with the dividers he held, "knowing that the channel is too shallow for us, and in any case, the shore battery here," again the chart was tapped, "will keep us from them." Pellew met the attentive eyes surrounding him. " But I hope to prove ourselves more resourceful than that. " He turned to the sailing master. "Mr Bowles, I believe that the night of the 21st offers us the fortuitous combination of a new moon and an unusually high tide?" 

"Aye sir, so it does," answered Bowles. 

"Here is what I propose," said Pellew.

****

The sounds of battle filled the stormy night, and the men at the oars pulled strongly as they cut around the shallows in an attempt to get to the coasters already captured. The short, savage action had taken its toll. Treake and Brixton were dead, gutted as they had tried to climb over the enemy coaster's rail. They lay tumbled over the thwarts as they had fallen, and the three oars the cutter could still crew worked around the bodies. Woods, Garson and Blackston were lying in the bottom of the boat as well, victims of the same slashing swords. 

They cleared the periphery of the action, but the sterns of the captured ships were already receding down the narrow inlet. Hornblower steered the cutter after them with a sinking heart, watching their salvation sail away. The rain lashed the small boat unmercifully, but at least the noise of the storm served to cover their retreat. At a nod from Hornblower, Matthews boated his oar and began to deal with the tangle of wounded and dead. He nodded curtly as Matthews asked for permission to heave the dead men over the side. He kept his face impassive as the grisly job was done, though his heart ached to leave them in enemy waters like so much meat. Damn! To lose so many, all because a Frog had chosen that moment to look over the rail! 

When Hornblower saw him turn Woods over, obviously still alive, Matthews slid himself between the lieutenant's inquiring look and the seaman. "I'll take care of 'im sir," the man said, a bit too heartily. "'E isn't as bad as 'e looks." 

Suddenly suspicious, Hornblower craned his neck to try to see over Matthews shoulder. The seaman moved, blocking his view. "I'll see that for myself, if you don't mind, Matthews," Hornblower was becoming irritated. Everywhere he tried to look, Matthews was there first. "That will do, Matthews," he finally said, taking the seaman by the shoulder and moving him aside, keeping the other hand firmly on the tiller.

He almost forgot to steer at the sight which greeted his eyes. Woods was conscious, trying vainly to pull the blood soaked shirt back over the wound in *her* side? Hornblower's mind reeled as he glimpsed a small, but very feminine breast before Woods succeeded in hiding it beneath her shirt. He must have stood there a full minute gaping, he realized, before he had the presence of mind to speak. 

"What is the meaning of this," he finally managed to ask. 

Matthews just crouched there silently, the rain running down his forehead. 

"You knew about this, didn't you Matthews," Hornblower said. 

"Aye, sir," the seaman answered, his eyes meeting his commander's unflinchingly. 

"And you didn't see fit to inform me?" 

Matthews didn't drop his gaze, even though he knew what his silence might cost both him and the girl who lay in the bottom of the cutter. She was watching the exchange with pain-filled eyes, her hand pressed hard against the wound in her side. But she didn't make a sound. 

"No, sir," Matthews answered. 

Hornblower waited for him to continue. The silence stretched between them. "Matthews, I'm waiting," Hornblower finally said. 

"Begging your pardon, sir, but she's a good man," He ignored Hornblower's indignant start, "and she works as hard as any of us. I didn't see as what she kept under her breeches was important so long as she kept it to herself." 

Styles started to chuckle from his place at the oars, earning a glare from Matthews. 

"Belay that, Styles," said Hornblower without turning from Matthews. 

"Sorry sir," came the answer, though the grin didn't leave the sailor's battered face. 

Just then, Sarah lost the fight for consciousness. Hornblower saw her slump further down and silently cursed himself for arguing about her presence while her life might be slipping away. 

Matthews was there before him, turning the wounded girl over on her side and lifting away the blood-soaked shirt. The slash across her ribs gaped, deep and ugly, but it was not as bad as Matthews had feared. He stripped off his own shirt and folded it into a makeshift pad to press against her side. 

Hornblower gaped again at the sight of her white breast, reflexively averting his eyes, and caught sight of Styles leaning in for a closer look. 

"Damn you, Styles!" He threw his sodden coat to Matthews, to put between her nakedness and the hungry eyes. "Have you no decency?" 

Styles shot his commander a sullen look, but turned his face away obediently. "Been beside that for months, and now 'e expects me not to look," he muttered. 

Hornblower ignored the low complaint and turned back to Matthews. 

"This'll have to be stitched, sir," he said, "and best the surgeon doesn't see it." 

Hornblower sighed. "Well he'll have to, now won't he," he answered, exasperation coloring his tone. His mind was spinning. To be caught in foreign waters with barely enough hands to crew the boat was bad enough. To be faced with such a situation as this on top of it-- 

"But sir," Matthews pleaded "You can't turn 'er in now!" 

"What choice do I have, Matthews," Hornblower said wearily. He looked down at the crumpled form in the bottom of the boat. "A frigate is no place for a woman." 

"She's been man enough till now," Matthews persisted, 'and she took that sword in 'er side without a whimper, sir, as good as any lad." 

"That's true enough, sir," Styles had his face almost theatrically averted from them, looking outboard. "Be a shame to lose a good hand like Woods here." 

Everything in Hornblower recoiled from the thought, and what had just happened. A woman had been injured, and under his command. How had he not seen her true sex? He must have been blind! He wondered what terrible reason had driven her to seek refuge in a King's ship. Had she no family, no one to care for her as a woman ought to be cared for? 

He turned his mind to the problem of getting them safely back to the ship. Indy would have had to stand off by now. The tide had long since turned, and the storm that had been their cover would force her from the coast. The prizes would go with her of course. Hornblower and his boat would be considered lost. He was truly on his own. The wind was rising further, but there was nowhere to go. He reluctantly put in to shore. Beaching the boat and dragging it up above the tide line was a nightmare, but somehow they got it done, and got the boat turned over. The four of them huddled beneath it, soaked to the skin, till the storm should pass. 

*** 

Sarah woke to pain and howling wind. A low moan broke from her lips, but was lost in the noise of the storm. 

Hornblower was pressed against her side, and felt her move. He leaned over the wounded girl and put a gentle hand on her chest as she tried to rise, keeping her from knocking her head into the thwart above. 

"Lie still, Woods," he said softly.

Sarah obeyed. With a storm blowing, what point was there in disobeying? She could hear the surf not far off. Matthews snored softly on her other side. Good old Matthews, she thought. He truly could sleep in the middle of a raging gale! 

"What'll be done with me, sir?" She asked the question matter-of-factly. Better to know the worst now, and gain what little time she could to plan. 

"That depends," Hornblower answered. He could not see her distinctly, but he could sense her waiting for his answer, could feel her fear under the pragmatic self-assurance that had always marked Jack Woods. "Why are you here," he asked softly. 

Sarah could hear the puzzlement in his tone. She could sympathize with his position, after all. To come suddenly face to face with the revelation that one of his men was not at all what she seemed, especially in a situation such as they now faced, would have tried the temper of many a more experienced officer. His apparent lack of hostility amazed her. Hesitantly, she dared to hope that something might be salvaged from the situation. 

When Hornblower was genuinely confused by problems such as the ones he faced, which did not allow his immediate action, he preferred to move slowly and examine the situation in solitude. In the hours he had had to himself, lying beside Woods, he had been pulled between the twin problems, getting safely back to the Indy, and what he would do about Woods once they got there. Now that she was awake, he welcomed the chance to concentrate on something he had some control over! He mentally went over what he knew of the seaman, and the ramifications of her masquerade. He weighed her performance, and the consequences for her of suddenly being thrust into a ship full of men who had not been ashore in months. There was also the impossibility of getting her home to England in the immediate future, let alone the problem of where she might go once she got there. Against that had to be set the fact that Styles and Oldroyd now knew her secret. There was also the matter of Matthews, and the reason for his silence. Yes, it was a complex problem, with many variables and possible outcomes, and there was much that he did not yet know. Woods' wakefulness had granted him the chance to add her view of things to the equation. 

"Why are any of us here," Sarah answered slowly, choosing her words with care. Providence had seen fit to unmask her, and had done it in front of the only officer who would give her a fair hearing, thank God! She was determined to make the most of her chance. She had no wish to be disrated for the rest of the voyage, with no place in the ship, and no rations. If she handled this properly, she might at least be rated Captain's Servant, and sign aboard another ship when she was put ashore. It might not be Indy, but it would be a living. "I wished to serve my country, sir." 

Hornblower considered this for a moment. "Surely there are other ways of rendering service. A frigate is no place for a woman in time of war." 

Sarah chuckled softly. "Women have always been aboard ship, sir. Peace or war, it makes no difference." 

"Regulations strictly forbid women in the ranks, Woods." Hornblower tried to sound severe, but knew he had failed miserably. 

"Yes sir, they do. There's a difference between regulations and the way the world is." 

"I am quite aware of that, Woods!" Hornblower snapped in exasperation. "I do not wish to engage in a battle of words with you! Do you wish to explain yourself, or should I reach a decision on my own?" 

"No sir," came the immediate answer. "My reasons are simple enough." She shifted painfully trying to ease the pressure on the rough stitches Matthews had put in her side. "I've been at sea since I was a young lass. My father owned a fishing boat in Kent, and I was his only child. My mother died when I was six, bearing him a son who did not live to draw breath. I was all he had left of her and he could not stand to send me away. Neither could he care for me, save at sea. I loved the life, can you understand that, sir?"

Hornblower kept silent, his face grave as he considered her words. 

Sarah took his silence as assent and continued. "He wanted me to marry, and I wanted to stay at sea. I expected I'd have no trouble finding a husband who would share the life with me. I came with a trade and the boat after my Dad passed on." She stopped, surprised at the sudden tightness in her throat. 

Hornblower could hear the sudden thickness in her voice, and his heart went out to her. "What happened," he asked gently. 

Sarah mastered herself. She could not be seen as a weak woman, dissolving in tears at any moment. "We were caught in a gale, and we were driven ashore. We lost the boat, with a full catch in the hold." She spoke calmly, as Jack always had. "We made it ashore, but we had nothing. There was no one willing or able to take us in, so we made our way to Portsmouth, where prospects were better. Then we fell in with Paul Woods." She felt him start at the name. "Oh yes, sir. That much is true enough. I was the wife of Paul Woods until he died. Then I took the name Jack, and signed aboard the first Kings ship that was short of crew." She sighed. "The rest you know, sir. Will you turn me in, or will you allow me to continue at a profession I have proved myself suited for?" 

Hornblower found himself at a loss for words. Damn her anyway! To demand an answer from him before he had had a chance to consider her words was rank impudence! But she had a way about her that made it impossible to take offense. Regardless of her sex, she had always been one of the steadiest of his division, and her calm, matter-of-fact manner had not changed a whit. "Regulations are clear on this matter," he began, trying to gain time to think. 

Sarah felt her heart drop to her worn shoes. She saw her new life in ashes, her horizons narrowing in the time it had taken that damned sword to find her side. She clamped her jaw against tears, determined not to further shame herself in front of Hornblower. 'Stop it!' she told herself fiercely. 'You idiot! You have to think of the way out of this mess!' 

Hornblower was grateful for her silence, unaware of the distress his quick words had caused. He also was thinking furiously. His duty demanded one thing, but his heart and mind told him a different story. Her sincerity was plain, and her competence beyond question. But her sex was also beyond question, and completely out of place. Could he transfer her? No, for some reason would have to be given, and in any case, that was simply putting his dilemma off on someone else. She could, of course, be rated as Captain's Servant, if Pellew would agree to it. He had been very firm in his views, however. There were no women at all in the Indefatigable, for he would not expose them to the hazards of war. Until now, Hornblower had agreed completely with his captain. 

Sarah found her despair turning to anger as she lay silent in the darkness. He would not even do her the courtesy of telling her her fate directly! She was grateful, for it allowed her to gain the upper hand over her unruly emotions. His silence, beyond the formal words, told her all she needed to know. She almost laughed in the relief that followed, knowing that she had no more to lose. She had known, after all, that she risked exactly this when she had signed aboard under false pretenses. Her mind turned to the problem of retrieving her kit, and somehow managing to keep hold of it through the uncertain future that awaited her. She knew that there was absolutely no chance of securing her wages. The Indy would not pay off until the end of the war, at the earliest, and by then, she would be but a bad memory. She smiled secretly in the gloom. At least she would have no need to pay the purser for the tobacco and slops she had had of him! She knew Hornblower was softhearted enough to be talked into getting her name retained in the muster book for that purpose! That would stop him from trying to take what she owed out of her gear. The cheap bastard would have to wait until they paid off, as he did for everyone else. She turned to the problem of somehow securing a rating until they touched English soil again. If only she hadn't signed on to Pellew's ship! He was surely the only officer in the fleet who refused to carry any women at all in time of war! It was typical of the trust the division placed in Hornblower that she never doubted she would see the Indy again, nor dwelt overlong on just how their return would be accomplished. She was mulling over the name she would sign onto another ship under when he spoke again. 

"I cannot say that I disagree with your reasons, Woods." Hornblower paused. "But neither can I condone what you have done." He knew that if he were to do what was just and right in this matter, he would have to have her help, and that of her shipmates as well. "In the morning, we will see what can be done." 

Sarah kept her silence, though she wanted to rage, to take the young officer by the throat and make him understand her position, and her determination to keep her place as seaman. He said no more, and they lay next to each other that way till morning. 

****

Sarah woke to a dry dawn, though her sodden clothing clung to her chilled body. She had not expected to sleep. As she moved, she bit back a groan as the stiffened wound in her side sent pain through her whole body. 

Hornblower was no longer beside her, but Matthews and Styles still slept beneath the boat with her. Oldroyd had the watch, it seemed. She wormed her way painfully out from under the boat. She found Hornblower standing on the beach, looking out to sea. 

"How's the side, Woods?" Hornblower looked at his charge with some concern, but said nothing further. 

"Fine, sir. Thank you," said Woods noncommittally. If the truth were known, she was dizzy, and the wound sent pain through her with every movement, but it was manageable, and she dared show no signs of weakness before any of them. Normalcy was the only course of action that offered any protection. Hornblower was a closed book. She sternly quelled the rising panic before it had a chance to get well started. Oldroyd was running down the beach towards them. "Sir! Frogs on the road! They're heading for the beach!" 

Hornblower whipped around, forgetting Woods. "Get this boat launched! Matthews! Styles! Turn to! He snapped out his orders, and forced himself to move calmly. Oldroyd's face already showed the raw edge of panic, but he calmed as they began to drag the cutter back down to the water. Hornblower knew that Matthews could be counted on in a crisis, and Styles was steady enough to be trusted. 

Quickly, they gathered the boat's gear and threw it aboard. He could hear the enemy soldiers now, their words still indistinct but closer than he liked. He struggled down to the boat behind Oldroyd, weighted down with the rudder.

The boat was in the water, Styles and Matthews holding it on either side, their arms over the gunwales. Woods was helping Oldroyd to get the oars aboard. She scrambled into the boat after them, as did Oldroyd. Styles let go his side and helped Hornblower heave the heavy rudder into the boat as Oldroyd and Woods got two of the oars shipped. As the other three tumbled into the bottom of the boat, Oldroyd and Woods backed water strongly, pushing the small craft away from the beach as fast as they could while the other two oars were hurriedly brought into play. 

Hornblower stayed in the bow, not wanting to make them waste a stroke. "Larboard, back water! Starboard, give way," he ordered tersely. 

The boat wallowed round on her axis and pointed her bows out to the open sea just as the first of the French troops came around the side of the hillock. 

"Now! Give way all! Heave for your lives!" Hornblower saw the puff of powder smoke as the first startled trooper put his musket to his shoulder and fired. There was a sharp impact as the ball buried itself in the transom. The other troops were forming a ragged line, and the reports of their muskets carried across the water. The balls peppered the water behind them as the cutter pulled out of range. The soldiers sent one more volley after them, but it fell far short. 

"Bugger you, Frog!" Styles shouted gleefully as he pulled. His face was alight with the exhilaration of their narrow escape. 

Styles's mind didn't leap ahead of the present moment, but Hornblower's did, and as the immediate danger passed, the desperate nature of their situation pushed its way to the fore. He made his way aft to the sternsheets, now that the beach was behind them, and supervised the passing of the rudder aft as well. Once it was shipped, and his hand on the tiller, he felt at least a little better. The speed of their escape had made it necessary to leave many things behind. Unfortunately, the mast and sail had been two of them. The mast and sail, the other two sets of oars, and most of the weapons! He had a knife, and had automatically buckled the cutlass he had carried instead of a sword around his waist on rising. He realized now that he had been damned lucky not to have caught it on something as he had scrambled aboard the small boat. He smiled inwardly. If he had been wearing a sword, he surely would have done so! The pistols, and their accompanying powder and shot that Oldroyd had been carrying during his watch were stowed neatly under the foresheets, as was his cutlass, but that was all. Little enough to find their way to a friendly ship or shore, had they had all of it, but Hornblower ached inside knowing it was all lying on that wretched beach! Another failure added to the tally for this ill-fated expedition! He fought the impulse to lick his dry lips, knowing that the others would be feeling the same raging thirst. What were they to do? In enemy waters, no water, no food, and sure to be driven ashore again through necessity if they did not find a friendly ship. 

Hornblower realized that this train of thought would do none of them any good, and turned his mind to the problem at hand. They had beached the cutter at the mouth of the inlet, and were now in the open ocean. He recalled the chart to mind as best he could, and the various stations that the squadron should be occupying. With neither chart nor compass, he knew that his course must be based on only the roughest of guesses, but he did not waver as he steered as nearly as he could reckon for the squadron. 

By noon, the sun was beating down on them. Hornblower knew they were lost if they didn't get water soon, though to their credit, none of his men complained. The quiet that had settled over the cutter was heartening to him, but their silent trust made the responsibility for their lives harder to bear. 

Then, the impossible happened.

"Sir! It's the Indy!" Styles pointed over the larboard rail. "There! fine on the larboard beam!"

Hornblower shook himself guiltily, realizing that he had been steering by rote. There, abeam, was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. The Indy, recognizable by her sail plan and weathered canvas, so unlike the white sails of the port-bound French fleet, was the closest thing to home any of them had. He pushed the tiller to starboard, and steered for their salvation. 

 

****

The surprised hails had roused Pellew from his melancholy mood. The prizes had long since been dispatched to England, a master's mate in charge of each. With nothing more to do save drill the crew and sail the maddening miles of their blockade station, he had been in his cabin, staring at the chart. He hated to lose men, and Hornblower had been one of the most promising lieutenants he had ever had. He was grateful for any distraction and went on deck, not waiting to be called. 

There, off to starboard, was his boat full of weary men. Thank God! He almost said it aloud, but checked himself just in time. "Mr Kennedy!" The midshipman was waving his hat, yelling like a common seaman. That was no example to set! "Those men will undoubtedly be famished when they get aboard, and in need of water! I would be obliged if you'd see to it, and send Mr. Hornblower to me as soon as he is aboard!" 

Kennedy turned, looking properly chastened and touched his hat to Pellew. "Aye aye, Sir!" 

He met Hornblower at the entry port and sent him back to the captain. The weary men he sent to the scuttlebutt, with the promise of rations below. 

"Mr Hornblower, I'll take your report below, if you please." Pellew paused at the hatch, his hand on the coaming. "I'm sure you have a tale or two to tell me, sir!" 

His smile was joyful, and only made Hornblower feel worse. He had no idea what he would tell his Captain. The secret he held was a dreadful weight. He longed to be free of it, but how could he betray the trust of one of his seamen? No matter what he did, it seemed that he would have to betray someone. With a sinking heart, he followed Pellew down the ladder. 

Once in the great stern cabin, Pellew poured a cup of water and gave it to his lieutenant. Hornblower had never tasted anything so good and emptied the cup in a swallow. Pellew smiled indulgently and pushed the pitcher across the table. "Drink, Mr. Hornblower, drink. I am sorry you were sent out so poorly provisioned, sir! Had I known that you had planned an excursion I would have seen to it that you were better provided for!" 

Hornblower blushed and put the cup on the table. "I apologize, sir, I forgot myself!" 

Pellew's eyes met his. "Not at all, Mr. Hornblower," he said seriously. "You must care for yourself as well as your men, or you'll be of no use to them." He poured another cup of water and handed it to the young officer as he continued. "You will be glad to know that we took two prizes in the raid, and they have been despatched to England." Pellew saw the young man try to manufacture a look of happiness at the news, but was not deceived. His heart went out to him. "It is always difficult to lose men, Mr Hornblower, but it is unavoidable, I fear," he said gently. "You did your best, and you brought as many out as you could. 'Tis a miracle you came back at all!" 

The soft words only added to his misery. Would his captain be as pleased with him if he knew the truth he held back? He longed to tell him the whole truth now, he had never kept anything from an officer he respected. Hornblower realized, with a sudden burst of clarity, that he had never really respected Keene, that he had only been grateful to him. What a different thing true respect was! What a miserable recompense to the man who had engendered it to hold back the truth from him! He all but opened his mouth to tell Pellew everything, when the voice of Woods, tear thickened, came back to him. 'I loved the life, sir--can you understand that?' So he did the only thing he could. He told his captain the sequence of events, from leaving the Indy's side until the boat had returned once again, omitting nothing--save Woods wound and her true identity. By the time he had finished, he was exhausted, as much from the effort of lying to Pellew, if only by omission, as from the effort of telling the tale. 

Pellew regarded his young officer, all but swaying on his feet with fatigue. "Thank you, Mr. Hornblower, you've done well. But you're no use to me as you are. Get yourself something to eat and some sleep, man. Anything else can surely wait." 

Hornblower did as he was bid. 

****

Matthews fell in behind Styles as they waited their turn at the scuttlebutt. All his weary mind wanted to focus on was the musty water it contained, but his fears for Sarah, now that Styles knew her secret, outweighed even the need for water. At last his turn came, and he gulped down two cupfuls in quick succession. He could feel his insides open up as the liquid hit them, and he longed to duck his whole head in the life-giving fluid, but he passed the cup to Oldroyd instead. He stuck to Styles like a cockleburr as they were surrounded by their mates. 

Sarah was grabbed by one of her mates as she tried to make her way over to Styles and Matthews. "I should have known you'd come crawling back, Jack!" Masters face was jubilant and Sarah forced herself to smile back in spite of the fear gnawing at her guts. As she was spun round by another seaman, she caught sight of Mr. Hornblower going below with Captain Pellew and the fear turned to near panic. One corner of her mind still saw reason, however, and she managed to keep playing the part of miraculously rescued seaman, expecting any minute to be called below. 

They all were, soon enough, for the first meal any of them had had in nearly 24 hours. Even as hungry as they were, getting it down was a challenge. It seemed as if every off watch seaman wanted to hear the tale of their escape. Sarah expected to hear her true sex blurted out at any moment, but it did not happen, though more than once, Styles eyes met hers across the table. She shivered at what she saw in them, though she hoped she gave no outward sign. 

Matthews barely managed to get his meal down between words. " You should have seen our Mr Hornblower," he said proudly. "Them Frenchies saw us right enough, and kept us from boarding, but 'e never lost his head! Rowed us right around and lost us under their bows--and us with half a crew left! " Matthews didn't let Styles or Oldroyd get a word in edgewise. He didn't miss the calculating looks Styles gave Sarah, but it was Oldroyd who really worried him. 

Later, Matthews followed Oldroyd out to the head. Caught between the two of them, he had had to choose which one to let out of his sight, and Styles had seemed the safer bet. If he knew his messmate, he would put the information to use, not blurt it out as Oldroyd was liable to do. 

"We 'ave to stand behind Woods, Jonas, so we do," he began. 

Oldroyd looked at him as if he were mad. "'Course we do!" He was indignant at the suggestion. "Wotcher take me for, Matty? 'E's our mate, ain't he?" A silly grin crossed the younger seaman's face. "Wonder wot 'e'd clean up like, don’t ya? All this time and none of us even 'ad a clue!" 

Matthews was thinking just that, but he kept it to himself. " Put that behind you, lad, and think of 'im as just that--'im. A lad among lads is no news, but a woman among us is trouble." He buttoned himself and went aft. 

As Matthews and Oldroyd left, Styles sauntered up to Sarah. "Wot else ya got 'idden under that rig," he asked nastily. "It's been share and share alike in this mess 'asn't it dear?" 

Sarah's heart turned to ice. "Leave off, Styles," she said, not knowing what else to do. Her worst nightmare had come true, and she felt exposed and helpless. 

"Better me than the whole bloody ship, girl," he persisted.    
"You think the Capting would allow that," she said weakly. 

Styles grinned. "No, but you won't tell 'im, now will yer? Not if you wants to stay aboard. You know 'e'll put yer off the first chance 'e gets, our high an' mighty Sir Edward." 

Sarah weighed her choices and her chances. Even the thought of allowing Styles to paw her made her feel sick, but what else could she do? How badly did she want to be a seaman? After all, the reason she had taken up this life was to avoid having to give herself to any man who would support her, but Indy was now far more than just a refuge. Yet what kind of life would it be if she did as Styles demanded? How long would it be before the rest of the crew--and the officers--found out who and what she was? She made up her mind then. Better to be a woman than a slut. "Go to 'ell, Styles." She met his eyes defiantly. 

"So that's 'ow it's to be, is it?" He looked measuringly at his prey. 

Sarah smiled bitterly. "Aye. And if you try anything, I'll raise enough fuss to 'ave the whole company down 'ere."

Matthews heard the last as he came back to the deserted mess. He tried to quell the fury that rose in him at the thought that anyone would touch Woods. It would do neither of them any good. But he knew of something that might. "No need for that, is there, mates?" He looked Styles up and down. "Woods 'ere is our mate, right Styles?" 

"Aye, and our mess is better provisioned than most now, ain't it, Matthews," Styles said with a leering grin. 

Matthews pushed aside the impulse to strike his messmate. "I don't see that Woods 'ere is part of the provisioning, mate, and I think that we ought to stick together, if you take my meaning. I think there are some who would be interested to know just how long it takes the cooper to knock down the rum casks, don't you?" Matthews was gratified to see the leer turn to a look of calculated greed. By regulations, the rum casks were supposed to be thoroughly rinsed with salt water and knocked apart for storage as soon as they were emptied. A cask absorbed part of its contents, and an enterprising man could fill an emptied rum cask with water, leave it for a few days, and extract from it a final product little different from the grog served daily to the crew. Styles had an arrangement with the purser and the cooper and made quite a bit from his illicit trade. 

Damn Matthews! Styles could almost feel the soft flesh he had been so sure of possessing. "Wants 'er for yourself, do ya mate?" After all, who wouldn't? 

Matthews's lined face smiled pityingly. "A mate is a mate, Styles, and you know better." His secret was his, and would remain so. 

"A mate is a mate, and damn yer eyes, Matthews!" Styles spat. He climbed the ladder angrily and went on deck. 

"Thanks Matthews," said Sarah. For the second time in a day she felt herself close to tears. "You're a true mate." 

"I'd 'ave done the same for any of the mess," Matthews said, embarrassed. "You're one of us, Woods, you've proven that." 

"Let's 'ope Mr. Hornblower thinks the same," she said quietly. She faced him, looking into his eyes curiously. "How long 'ave you known?" 

Matthews smiled. "I don't know really, it came upon me. Like something growing," he said softly. "At first it's 'ardly there, but give it time, and it grows as tall and true as can't be mistook." He dropped his eyes, fearful that she might see what shone behind them. 

Sarah didn't know what to say. "You stood up for me to an officer, Matty," she finally managed. "I won't forget that. Not never." She smothered the impulse to kiss the weathered cheek that was turned to her. 

"It wasn't nothing I wouldn't 'ave done for any of us," Matthews repeated. He made his escape up the ladder. 

Sarah stared up after him. She knew that she had glimpsed something rare in the man, something he didn't want her to see. She locked it away with her other secrets. 

****

Hornblower let himself out of the stern cabin, the praise of his captain still echoing in his ears, and slunk to his quarters. Never before had he felt like such a fraud. He took off his coat and lay down, weary in body and mind, and completely disgusted with himself. 

Five minutes later, when Kennedy looked in on his friend, only soft snores greeted him. He smiled at the sight of the familiar face, angelic in repose, and quietly left Hornblower to sleep. 

END


End file.
